Pages

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

After my visit to St
Mary’s Church/Lady Chapel, I retraced my steps back to the excavation. While my
stay at the church had been restful and contemplative, the excavation brought a
whole raft of conflicting emotions. At that time it was the first excavation
I’d visited since leaving the profession, four years previously. I
simultaneously felt drawn to the immediacy of discovery and the so many other
positive things that I remembered fondly from my old life. Sure, there were
reminders of other aspects of the profession I was keen to leave behind – the
sore back & knees, the pay, the constantly being covered in dirt – but
there in the sunshine on a well-run research dig it was the good bits that
predominated. It was emotional.

Romanesque capital

I put my cameras and
other gear back in the bag, slung my tripod over my shoulder and set off
towards the car park. As I turned to go back over the bridge, my eye was caught
by the sign that pointed away down the valley in the other direction to St
Saviour’s. My eye passed over it … I wasn’t going to go that way today! That
was it … I opened the car, put my stuff in the boot and sat in. I got as far as
putting the key in the ignition when it struck me that my appointment in south
Dublin wasn’t for several hours … it was a gorgeous, bright sunny day … why not
walk to St Saviour’s? I locked up the car and again headed towards the bridge.
I got as far as the sign and paused … if I was going to see the church, I may
as well bring my camera, right? So, back to the car! Well if I’m going to bring
the cameras, I may as well bring the tripod to take some 3D shots, right? How
far can it be, right? The tripod’s not that heavy, right? … As they say in
Northern Ireland: ‘Aye, Right!’, meaning: ‘No, Wrong!’.

View through the chancel arch to the east window

Now lugging my
equipment, I was back at the turn-off by the bridge. Once I was set foot on
this literal ‘one less travelled by’ the change was instantaneous … the crowds
heading to the Round Tower and Kevin’s ‘Kitchen’ and I went our separate ways.
And with them went their noise and hubbub … it was practically silent here
under the canopy of the trees. The main path was full of visitors and it was
occasionally difficult to ensure that we didn’t hit one another with a swinging
arm or bag, or even step on someone else’s heel. Out here it was different …
there were so few travellers that we greeted each other cordially as we passed.
I had been walking for a while and the narrow strap on the Manfrotto tripod was
really starting to dig into my shoulder. The camera bag wasn’t feeling too
light, either. It was around this point that I realised that I hadn’t had
anything to drink all day and was feeling particularly dehydrated. Things
didn’t get much better when I stopped a passing walker to ask if they knew how
much further the church was. Their response was: “Ha! You’ve a way to go yet!”
Not exactly encouraging. I spoke to a second walker who, gesturing vaguely,
told me that they’d come onto this path five or six miles back and hadn’t seen
any church. Even less encouraging. I’ve got nothing against a good long walk,
but I had in my possession Peter Harbison’s Guide
to the National and Historic Monuments of Ireland, and it clearly said that
St Saviour’s was ‘about half a mile further down the valley floor from the main
cluster of monuments’. There are few things you can rely on in Irish
archaeology but, by god, you can depend on Harbison! … can’t you? Actually,
measuring it now on Google Maps, it’s over twice that distance. On the day, the weight
of the book in the camera bag and my dehydrated state may also have contributed
to the dark thoughts directed at Harbison and this church.

Detail on the chancel arch

Sometimes, when you’re
lost or just ‘lacking in locational certainty’, seeing a signpost can bring
much needed relief. Sometimes. Not today. Tucked away on the verge and moderately easy to miss was a small, low sign pointing to St
Saviour’s. It was directing me onto a rough, unsurfaced path that appeared to dive into the belly of the valley and through a thick scrubby forest. It
probably comes from growing up in the metropolitan fastness of rural Galway,
but if the Dublin Jackeens aren’t to be trusted on general principles, you have
to really watch yourself in Wicklow – it’s like one long uninterrupted scene
from Boormann’s Deliverance.
Yep … Wicklow is Ireland’s Georgia … and you don’t just plunge into the forest
without taking precautions. After looking both ways to make sure I wasn’t being
followed, I adjusted the head of the tripod so I could, if necessary, turn it
into a large club to defend myself. I can attest, from an encounter many years
ago,* that a Manfrotto tripod wielded with brute force and ignorance can do a
surprising amount of damage. One way or another, if I was ambushed by Wicklow
Hillbillies, I wasn’t going down without a fight! Think: more Burt Reynolds
than Ned Beatty. In retrospect, the dehydration may have been biting deeper
into my subconscious that I realised at the time. Warily, I plodded into the
gloom of the forest, ever on the lookout for banjo players. Down, down, down
the trail went and just as I was really feeling the paranoia, the vista opened
up and I was back into the sunlight. And there in the middle of it all, shining
like a national guitar, was St Saviour’s Priory.

The chancel arch from inside the later addition to the north

St Saviour’s is a
nave-and-chancel church that contains the very finest Romanesque decoration to
be found in any of the Glendalough sites. It is often said that the church was
founded by St
Lawrence O’Toole in 1162 but, on stylistic grounds, it may be slightly
earlier. The chancel arch and the east window are both decorated with a variety
of well-executed Romanesque motifs, including geometric shapes, along with
human and animal heads. In particular, the chancel arch is rather spectacular
and is composed of three orders, on finely decorated capitals. Unfortunately, many
of the arch stones were clearly replaced in the wrong positions when the church
was conserved in the 19th century. In the later medieval period much of the
chancel was reconstructed when a second, rather plain building was added on the
north side of the church. This second building also included a stairway to a
room above the chancel.

Exterior of the east window

While the central area
of Glendalough was heavily visited by tourists this, like Lady Chapel, was
almost deserted. Almost. When I got there a couple were happily installed and
having lunch on the boundary wall. They were rather surprised at my sudden
appearance, attempting to look like I wasn’t brandishing a tripod as a weapon.
In fact, they were so certain that they were not going to be disturbed, they
had set their picnic up directly over the access style into the site. They were
very accommodating and moved their stuff to allow me onto the site. Their offer of a
bottle of water was also greedily accepted and did much for my state of mind as
well as state of body. After some convivial conversation, I went about to
explore the site. To be honest, there’s little of interest in the later
medieval building. Even in the main church building, the primary foci are the
chancel arch and the east window … but what jewels they are! I divided my time
between gasping in #RomanesqueFanboyAwe, trying to take photographs that did the
carvings justice, and simply sitting in the sunshine, enjoying the place and the
serenity.

Overview from the east

Eventually, it was time
to head back towards the car. I bade goodbye to both this wonderful site and
the kind, picnicking couple and headed back into the forest, refreshed, relaxed, and reinvigorated
… but I still kept a grip on the tripod and a wary eye out for passing
Hillbillies …

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

There’s no denying that
the central precinct of Glendalough is pretty packed with tourists during the
summer season. While the round tower, St Kevin’s church, the graveyard, and all
that are lovely and interesting, it’s just not possible to take a photograph
without other people getting in the shot (and you becoming part of someone
else’s holiday snaps too!). With buses disgorging a seemingly endless stream
of sightseers, the site does take on something of the feel of a theme park.
While I’m fully aware that these sites would have bustled with activity in
their heydays, I do prefer my medieval ruins to be still and peaceful … and
that quietude is just not to be found there. Or so I thought. In my wanderings,
I bumped into a couple of student archaeologists working on a small trench near
the gateway. They directed me up the road and into a field where the main UCD
Archaeology Department excavation was taking place. I was lucky enough to bump
into the crew just at the end of lunchtime and was given a guided tour of the excavation.
You can download and read detailed accounts of some of their excavations [here]. At the
end of a very enjoyable spell learning about the newly discovered archaeology
of Glendalough & renewing some old acquaintances, I happened to ask if it
was possible to get to the church I could see poking out thorough bushes and
trees in the next field. I fully expected to be told that it was off limits and
couldn’t be reached. I was instead pleasantly surprised to find that it was
merely a case of negotiating a couple of gates under the shade of the trees and
suddenly I was standing in the sunlight and soaking up the beauty of the ruin
known as St Mary’s Church or Lady Chapel.

Lady Chapel as seen from near 'Kevin's Kitchen'

The nave appears to be
of 10th or 11th century date and the chancel is a later addition. The outside
of the east window has a Romanesque moulding. For my money, though, the gem of
this site is the cross with circular-terminals, carved on the underside of the door
lintel. Well ... that may be the archaeological gem of this place, but the
really amazing thing about the site is that it was so quiet and peaceful. It’s
just 500ft (about 140m) from St Kevin’s Church/’Kitchen’. Over there it was all
hustle and bustle, but here – just a field away – I could hear the birdsong and
the wind gently rustle the leaves.

Approaching across the field

I’m in two minds about whether
I should be promoting this site for its peace and solitude, thereby potentially
destroying the very thing that makes it special. However it is – in every sense
– off the beaten track and I think I’m safe enough. The busloads of tourists
hitting the site for their scheduled 30 minute slot, to take a few photos and
buy a souvenir or two will never have the time, inclination, or footwear, to
make it this far. It will, I believe, remain the preserve of the lucky few to
come here and enjoy the tranquility before heading out again, refreshed, into
the tumult.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Round Towers generally
date to the period from the 9th to 12th centuries and probably served a variety
of functions, from acting as a belfry to call monks to prayer to a refuge in
times of strife. In all but one surviving case they have doors at first-floor
level to accommodate either pole valuters or beard-rapelling monks, or (less likely) access by rope ladder [here | here].

Glendalough’s round tower is about 30m tall with an entrance about 3.5m above
the present ground level and is constructed from mica-slate and granite. Having
suffered damage in a lightning strike, its conical roof was rebuilt in the 19th century using the
original stones. Internally, the tower held six wooden floors, each connected
by ladder and lit by a single narrow window. The topmost floor had four
windows, facing the cardinal points.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

If there’s one image
that typifies Glendalough, it’s the unique survival that is commonly known as St
Kevin’s ‘Kitchen’. This stone roofed oratory dates
broadly to the 12th century, though it appears to have had a complicated building history. If I understand it correctly, the church started as a nave-only
structure with a sacristy and chancel added later. The integral belfry with
four small windows and conical cap seems intended to mirror the adjacent round
tower. It is this feature – resembling a chimney – that led to it being
rebranded as a kitchen rather than a church. Seeing as it dates to about a half
a millennium after the time of St Kevin, he wasn’t cooking up dinner for anyone
there either.